


Night of the Hunt

by Zai42



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Creampie, Denial, Gangbang, Monsters, Nonconathon Treat, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Djura trusts the beasts of Yarnham not to hurt him, even in the face of all contrary evidence.





	Night of the Hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fayharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayharley/gifts).



> I really loved this prompt, and I hope I did it justice! Happy Nonconathon!

The night of the Hunt was always long, always dark, always thick with the scent of blood and moonlight. It would be a lie to say Djura didn't find it intoxicating, even now, even here. He had turned his back on the Dream, but the Hunt was not so easy to abandon. Still it thrummed in his veins, it was only that now, he turned that pulsing adrenaline on the real monsters. A protector now, not a hunter.

  
But the moon does strange things, not just to hunters, and now it hung heavy and blood-soaked in the night sky. Djura couldn't see it, pinned face-down as he was. Only the way it reflected on the damp cobblestone.

  
He had begged, at first. Tried to plead with the creatures he thought of as his wards, to appeal to the humanity that he still saw in their eyes. He had struggled, but that had only made them put him down harder, all claws and bared teeth and throaty snarls. There was blood dripping from his shoulder from where teeth had sunk into it, shredding leather and skin indiscriminately. He had only wanted to escape, not to hurt them--perhaps they had known that, Djura couldn't be sure. But whether they had known or not, the first to take him had pinned him, slavering and snarling, had fucked him roughly into the dirt, one claw pressing his face to the ground, one dragging his hips back to meet every merciless thrust.

  
The beast crouched over his back was gentle, now that Djura had gone still and submissive beneath it, but a growl still vibrated in its throat as its cock sank into Djura's body. It was easier than it had been, with Djura loosened and slicked with the come of the beasts that had taken their pleasure before this one. There was a wet, obscene sound as the beast began to thrust, and Djura's hands scrabbled for purchase on the cobblestone, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to relax; the beast made a noise closer to a purr than a growl, curling low over Djura's back, both clawed hands grasping his hips. Its breath was hot and humid on the back of his neck, and Djura closed his eyes. He canted his hips upwards, brow furrowing, trying to find a position that felt good.

  
A hot gob of saliva hit Djura's cheek and he sucked in a breath as the beast's thrusts grew more frenzied, less gentle. Above him there was rabid panting as the beast worked itself up, and Djura pressed a hesitant hand to his cock, waiting for a reaction. The beast let out a noise that sounded approving.

  
When Djura stuttered his way through his first orgasm of the night, the beast howled in triumph, its cock twitching as it pumped its load into Djura's already sloppy hole. It pulled out with a slick sound, come dripping down Djura's thighs, and Djura moaned. He was no longer certain if it was a moan of pleasure or pain, relief or loss, and soon he was moaning again as a new beast took the other's place.

  
It was better to let himself be taken rather than fighting it, to let his wards use him as they would. He had not imagined the humanity in their eyes; they never wanted to harm him, had only ever wanted him to submit, to become passive and pliant to let them do as they pleased. Djura bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut against the light of the bloodmoon, against the sight of the countless beasts that still crowded around him--waiting their turn.

  
They wouldn't hurt him. They were his, and he theirs. Even as clawed hands dug into the raw skin at his hips and a rough tongue lapped at the blood oozing from his wounds, even as he ached with overstimulation, even as his thighs grew sticky with dripping come, he clung to that mantra--he was theirs, and they would not hurt him.


End file.
